Three Kisses
by rose.tinted.lies
Summary: For the two times they got it wrong, and the one in which they finally, mercifully, got it right. Morgan, Reid, and the emotional understanding of the average male.


Their first kiss is at a bar.

The place is loud and compact, the scent of stale cigarette smoke and a cocktail of liquor lingering between bodies – some of which are moving haphazardly around the small dance space, some spread out across the few scattered tables and booths. The Behavioral Analysis Unit is celebrating, to a point – another case solved, another life saved, and in one of their rare moments of collective happiness the team has agreed to a night out, together.

Reid is sitting on a rickety stool, drawing patterns in the condensation smeared across the bench in front of him; leftover remnants of the wide glass to the right of his swirling fingers. His cheeks are flushed pink, an after-effect of the brandy steadily coursing through his system, and out of the corners of his eyes he quietly takes note of his group: his superiors, sitting close together at a far table, talking softly; the three women standing at the opposite edge of the bar to himself, laughing and chatting amongst themselves, eyes scanning the crowd every now and again as they take sips of the colourful drinks in each of their hands; and Morgan, moving with practiced ease through the dance floor, customary grin in place.

The youngest agent rarely drinks, preferring to keep a steady head (and, really, he's enough of a motor-mouth as it is, does he really need to make it any _worse_?), but he's made an exception tonight, mostly due to Garcia's persistent begging (_c'mon, G-man, everybody needs to cut loose, and that includes you_!) – although he has to admit to himself that perhaps it's the use of her bizarre nickname that spurs him into ordering.

The perky blonde is right, however (as usual), and as Reid breathes in the night, he realizes that it's been a long time – such a long time – since he's felt this content. The job is taking its toll on each of them, and they are not oblivious to its effects; there is a shared knowledge that these nights are few and far between, so for the brief window they _do _have, they enjoy it.

"Hey, kid," the greeting comes from his right, and Reid turns, movements slow and easy, to face Morgan, who plants himself down onto the stool beside him. The scent of beer seems to surround him, and as he gestures to the barman for another he ruffles the younger man's hair, barking a laugh at the indignant scowl that comes from the action, and the way the doctor tries (in vain) to neaten his messy locks.

"No fair," Reid mutters, low enough to that his co-worker doesn't appear to hear him over the heavy bass circulating through the bar. He clears his throat, saying louder; "Are you tired already?"

Morgan darts a quick look back to the dance floor, grinning. "Far from it, pretty boy – do you really gotta' ask? No way. I'm just wondering why you're not out there, workin' your _magic_ on the ladies."

The last sentence is punctuated by an obvious wink, and Reid blushes crimson, hand reaching for his drink with the idea that at least he can blame his response on the alcohol.

"It's not exactly my scene," he replies finally, placing the glass back on the countertop and darting a look up at his friend. Morgan looks at him, and for a second it appears as though there is something deeper in his eyes than cheerful inebriation, but then the look is gone as suddenly as it appeared, and he is back to grinning, teeth gleaming in the pulsing light.

"Somehow," Morgan says, accepting a beer bottle from the man behind the bar with an appreciative wave, "that doesn't surprise me, kid."

He sips his drink, and the two lapse into companionable silence for a while, Reid's fingers tapping an unorganized rhythm beside his nearly empty glass. Reid looks down at the digits curiously, halting their movement, and he rolls his eyes internally when he thinks that even when his mind is stationary (to an extent, at least) some part of his self has to remain constantly moving, constantly working.

His gaze slips to the left, allowing his fingers to continue with a shrug, and he catches sight of Aaron Hotcher mid-laugh. Across the table, Gideon is watching the other man, lips quirked upwards at the edges, and Reid takes a moment to observe the team's leaders. It gives him no small amount of hope to see the men in charge of them in these moments of calm – the moments when it _doesn't _seem as though they are holding up the world between them, the strain showing clearly on both of their forcibly stoic faces. It is moments like these that reinforce Spencer's belief that he hasn't made the wrong decision; it is possible to retain your humanity and still be a good profiler, he thinks. _He hopes_.

Turning back to his companion, Reid opens his mouth to speak, but stops, noticing the distinctive lack of distance between Morgan and himself. In the time he hadn't been paying attention, Morgan has moved so that he is standing close – _extremely _close, Reid thinks – to him, looking down at the now shorter man with a peculiar expression. Morgan is gazing at him as though he's never seen him before, and Reid furrows his brow in thought, wondering what, exactly, is running through the other man's mind, but before he can think on it too much, he is made suddenly _very _aware.

Morgan ducks his head in a movement so fast Reid almost misses it, and then before he can make sense of _what _exactly is going on (_what had he missed when he wasn't paying attention?_), there are lips pressed against his own, and the taste of beer fills his mouth, and the sound of bass is too loud – _oh god, too loud, everything's too loud _– and the scent of tobacco fills his nostrils so fast he feels like he's suffocating, and everything is too much – _too much _– to deal with, and Spencer freezes.

He remains frozen for an indeterminable amount of time, in which his emotions swirl from, admittedly, pleasantly surprised, to confused, to self-conscious, to horribly, heart-wrenchingly aware of what's going on (finally, he can't help but think bitterly), and then he cannot think, cannot feel, past a blanket of betrayal, anger boiling in his blood. He raises both hands, places them squarely on the larger man's chest, and pushes, strength he isn't aware he possesses sending Morgan stumbling backwards.

"What the _fuck_, Morgan?" he hisses, and for a split-second wonders if the shock plastered across said man's face is more at the use of the vulgar language than anything else. Morgan's mind seems to catch up to his mouth, however, and just as quickly as the whole situation changed (_was it really just a moment ago that he'd been watching Hotch laugh…?_), he is stammering, words disjointed and pouring from his mouth so fast that Reid can't help but wonder if, really, he isn't sincere – but the betrayal and anger are still burning, and this is what keeps the scowl on his face, and his hands in fists by his side.

"I – shit, Reid, I thought –"

"Thought _what_?" Reid demands, voice rising in both pitch and volume. "Thought what, Morgan? That you lucked out with the girls on the floor, and you thought, _hey, Reid's better than nothing, right_? So why wouldn't you have a shot?"

"No!" Morgan's eyes are wide, and he stands, hands making vague gestures in the air that look like words he can't verbalize. "No, I – shit, Reid, I'm sorry, I thought that…"

"You thought _what?_" the younger man demands again, and he is acutely aware that they have drawn the attention of not only strangers, but also their team, but can't quite bring himself to care. "You thought _what_, Morgan? You thought I must be so _desperate _for attention that you could _get some _just because I've had a drink?"

Morgan stares at him, so obviously lost for words that if Reid weren't feeling so absolutely crushed and betrayed and _used_, he might stop to feel sorry for him. As it is, he jumps to his feet, tears forming at the edge of his eyes, and throws his bag over one shoulder. He turns, says nothing, and storms angrily away, pushing through the crowd and onto the street. He can hear somebody that he thinks might be Hotch calling his name, but can't bring himself to stop, can't bring himself to do much of _anything_ but keep walking, feet pounding the pavement furiously, the ache of crushing, overwhelming disappointment settling throughout his entire body.

He'd thought he was worth more than that. Once again, he'd been let down by his own expectations.

* * *

**_A/N:  
_**_Sorry if it doesn't make much sense at first; my intent is to make this a three-parter, and Morgan's side of the story will be explained as the plot continues._  
_Any constructive criticism is extremely welcome - any tips? Hints? Spelling mistakes? Recommendations? _**  
Love it? Hate it? Please review! :) **


End file.
